The Fated Letters
by Tempestt Londyn
Summary: Legend has it that members of each generation go astray; this theory has often stood the test of time. Yet, as the pinnacle of pureblood society, no one envisaged such insurgency in The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black  -Summary expanded inside-


**Author: **Tempestt Londyn

**Title: **The Fated Letters

**Summary: **Legend has it that members of each generation go astray has stood the test of time. Even the highly regarded have sullied themselves, sorely tempted by secular temptations. But as the pinnacle of pureblood society, no one ever envisaged such insurgency to devastate the legacy of The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.

**Rating: T**

**Warning(s): **The text contains interludes of mature references and coarse language.

**Disclaimer:** I am rightfully entitled to **absolutely no part** of the Harry Potter series.

**A/N: **Hello everyone; truth be told, this is not the story in which I'd intended to introduce myself with. Nevertheless, _that _particular piece is considerably longer than this, includes much more description, and I am so indecisive about its ending that I've decided to work on it a bit longer. The inspiration for _this _work, however, came to me two days ago by chance and ideas ceaselessly infiltrated my brain. It's certainly different from what I'd normally write, but I refused to sleep until I'd gotten everything out. So here is the finalized version. I hope you all enjoy and please provide me with feedback! :) So…without further ado, I present to you:

**~The Fated Letters~**

_**1971**_

When Walburga Black receives the letter, she is entertaining guests at her annual autumn ball. 12 Grimmauld Place is impeccable, its every staircase, nook, and cranny decorated with articles of glimmering green and striking silver.

Always the premier event of the upper class, this yearly celebration was vastly more significant than it has been in years past. _This _year, Walburga finally rid herself of her eldest son, Sirius. The little squirt had been wreaking havoc within her generally peaceful home for the two weeks prior to his departure for Hogwarts. Fed up with his relentless antics, in particular his disruption of her dinner with the Minister, it pained her not in the slightest to put him in the care of her niece, Andromeda, one of the few people who found the boy tolerable.

As Celestina Warbeck begins to croon the initial verse of her classic, "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," Walburga links arms with her husband, Orion, and they stride across the room to meet their guests who've not abstained from the practice of making at _entrance _at _her _gathering.

"Cygnus, Druella, how lovely to see you both!" Walburga exclaims; as her brother and husband shake hands and venture to a foreign section of the area, Walburga and Druella briefly embraced, exchanging kisses. It was all for pretense of course; the truth was, they'd loathed each other since meeting as schoolchildren. Druella believed the former was unnecessarily branch and lacked the demureness of a proper pureblood lady, and was therefore, an embarrassment; Walburga theorized that because as the latter was so well admired by the men of all four Houses, she surely lacked chasteness, regardless of Cygnus' naivety.

"You're looking rather peaky, Druella," Walburga smirks, her voice dripping with false sweetness and so unlike her eyes, which are hard as stone. "Missing my gorgeous _nieces_, I expect."

Druella stiffens; the backhanded compliment is a sharp blow. Although the talk had long since dissipated, it had not evaded pureblood society that she has failed to produce a male heir. Nonetheless, she bore it. "One who speaks of nothing but 'the _Cause'_ when we are privileged enough to see her; one who does nothing save scribble upon parchment for the greater portion of each and every day, as though she has forgotten the inevitability of the institution of _marriage_; one who would _reside_ in Malfoy Manor if given the chance. Yes, I certainly miss my _children_." She sardonically concludes, as her chest rose and fell rapidly. "And," she hisses, seizing her sister-in-law by the arm, "Given that Andromeda is Head Girl this year, you _dare _burden her with your slimy little tadpole, Walburga?"

Walburga gives a faux smile before prying Druella's fingers off her arm. "She certainly cares for the slimy little tadpole more than anyone I've ever met _and_ I'd believe you to have a little more faith in your daughter's qualities, sister-in-law of mine. Especially after your _shameful_ boasting at Faizah Zabini's dinner party that "She is more intelligent than _any _Ravenclaw."

Druella's eye twitches, but she says nothing in response. She can muster no retort for the words which she had so passionately spoken. A peculiar feeling coursed through her body, and she looks down to see her youngest nephew peering up at her with a toothy grin.

"Regulus, what are you doing out of bed at this hour?" His mother furiously whispers. So angered at her son for appearing at the event she'd specifically forbade him from, she fails to detect Druella retrieving a tawny envelope from his small hands.

"Athena kept pecking at the window until I opened it, and _then," _He stressed, alerting his mother that the tale was not finished, "She kept pecking _me _until I brought it down _here_." Regulus turns and begins ascending the staircase.

Walburga quickly shakes her head in exasperation. "Wait a minute, Regulus! What was the-"

"Joyous news, everyone! Simply _joyous_!"

Unfortunately for her, she never had the opportunity to properly summon her son, for Druella had strolled to the front of the room, cast _Sonorous _on herself, and began addressing the multitude of guests. It was then that Walburga took note of the now open envelope which bore the Hogwarts crest on its flap. In particular, it had not escaped her notice that the formerly solemn Druella was now smiling from ear to ear.

What had brought about this change?

"It's always an honor to be present at Walburga's autumn balls. Each year, the festivities are more extravagant and pleasing, and I could not be prouder! As you all know, Walburga and Orion's eldest son, Sirius, departed for Hogwarts today. We are immensely proud of young Sirius, and know that he will carry on the Black tradition of excellence. Thus, I believe everyone in attendance should be alerted of his wonderful accomplishment!"

Druella shoots a pointed look at Walburga whose eyes burn with indignation. The _nerve_ of her, accentuating _her_ presence at a _Walburga_ _Black_ affair! Then again, one could never turn a trollop into a housewife…

Walburga casually began to sip champagne as Druella began. She'd grant her five minutes in the limelight.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Orion Black,_

_I am pleased to inform you that your son, Sirius, has been sorted into the noble House of __**Godric**__**Gryffindor**__, which has commanded the respect of the wizarding world for many centuries. Renowned for selflessness, I can assure you that I will permit no members of this House to make bambling, bumbling spectacle of themselves, as if members of a band of baboons. Classes begin promptly at 8 o'clock tomorrow; as Head of Gryffindor House, I found it incumbent upon myself to notify you of this fine news. _

_I look forward to instructing Sirius here at our illustrious institution as we strive for a productive school year. _

_Congratulations,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Head of Gryffindor House _

_Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

"Bravo, Walburga and Orion! Oh, _bravo_! Gryffindor House! What a joy it must be to have your first born son sorted into Salazar Slytherin's _rival _House!You must be so proud!" At this point, Druella is all but singing. Orion's eyes are closed; he is doubled over in pain, his hand upon his chest as if having a stroke. Druella claps loudly, all by her lonesome, for every other eye in 12 Grimmauld Place fall in disbelief upon the matriarch of the Black family.

Walburga's glass shatters upon her cherry oak flooring.

_**1972**_

When Cygnus Black receives the letter, he travels to 12 Grimmauld Place in an instant.

Not that he has traveled to London entirely by his own volition. If possible that he could interact with his sister _only_ on Christmas Day, he would mandate it as law. But matters have progressed too far. Frankly, he'd been generous in allocating a three day grace period for the ungrateful brat.

He'd encountered unruliness with Bellatrix far too many times too count. Even Narcissa has become irritatingly rebellious since her engagement, and Cygnus found himself having to lecture her and remind the girl, the spitting image of her mother, of her upbringing.

But never, in Merlin's name, did Cygnus envision himself having to illuminate his sister's fireplace on account of _her_.

Once the Floo Powder settles, Cygnus steps out of the fireplace and brushes himself off. His eyes sweeping over the parlor, a rush of envy burn through him at the sight of an immediate family still in-tact. Regulus and Sirius had been facing one another, playing a game of wizard's chess. Orion was relaxed in an arm chair, leg crossed as he gazed down his glasses at the _Sunday Prophet_. Walburga had just dismissed a house elf and turned her attention back to what is obviously a newly purchased ivory evening gown. They all glanced up at his presence.

"Little brother, how are you this glorious Sunday?" Walburga screeches in an inappropriately cheering voice. She picks debris off her brother as she hugs him. Cygnus, however, did not reciprocate the gesture.

"Orion. Boys." He monotonously acknowledges his other relatives. "Walburga, release me," Cygnus rasps at his sister's hold. "You _sodding _woman! Have you no idea of the severity of the situation?"

"Why should I care, Cygnus?" The matriarch inquires, taking in her brother's features. His face seems longer, more drawn. His skin is now a sickly pale, instead of aristocratic, he's developed periorbital puffiness, and his face seems longer. Even so, she pokes him in the chest as she emphasizes each word. "Nearly year ago, your wife humiliated Orion and me in front of our guests, especially _Celestina Warbeck_, whom I've not heard from _since_!" She fumes, thinking of the brown skinned songstress who was apparently delegating her agent to pacify Walburga, claiming Celestina would contact her once she finished answering fan mail. "It's about time Druella met her retribution, I'd say! Where is she, anyhow, Cygnus?" Walburga rushes her question, seeing her brother part his lips in protest.

"Druella is at home, Walburga. _Distressed_, I might add." Cygnus responds, voice icy, as though this were common knowledge. "Exactly as you would be had your daughter—"

"Who, I was blessed enough _not _to have, resigned from The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, only to employ herself as a mudblood's tramp?"

Orion sighs at the choice of language. Folding the _Sunday Prophet _in half, he discards it and addresses his sons. "Boys, leave."

"But—" Both Sirius and Regulus start in unison, but oblige after a steely glance from their father.

Cygnus stares at her, lips as thin as a line. Walburga has never been one to sugarcoat anything. But she had _always _reveled in pain, no doubt where Bellatrix acquired the trait.

"Narcissa woke Druella and me at midnight with the news." He announces, thrusting the letter at his elder sister.

Walburga's eyes dance in excitement as they scan the parchment. She then began to read aloud, mimicking Andromeda's voice.

_Parents and Sisters,_

_For nearly twenty years, I've allowed myself to be a puppet for this synthetic family. _

_Father, I've listened to your __**lies**__ of how vastly superior purebloods are to halfbloods and muggleborns and how the wizarding world should be rid of the latter. I am tired. _

_Mother, I've nearly gone mad with your unyielding demands of finding __**the**__ impeccable pureblood spouse just so you can marry another daughter at the speed of a Golden Snitch. I'd sooner die than marry that vile, vindictive Russian. I've had enough. _

_Bellatrix, my dear elder sister. There's so much that can be said for you. You and I may look alike, sound alike, and even pass for twins, according to Professor Slughorn. But that superficial resemblance is where the similarities end. You see, dear sister, I confess myself disappointed in you. Yes, I realize the political climate is changing. But____I never dreamt you would be foolish enough to associate with Lord Voldemort. Use what semblance of common sense you have, Bellatrix! This sadistic man is __**not**_ _a pureblood, and will surely drag you down so deeply that you will never be able to regain a smidgen of rationality! _

_Narcissa, my precious little sister. As of late, you frown upon everyone that does not place the Malfoys upon a pedestal and who abstains from bowing at Lucius' feet. I, obviously, am no champion of pureblood supremacy, but even I am aware that compared to ours, his bloodlines are thinner than the hair upon the crown of Filch's head! If you insist on continuing to be the fool of our parents and sister and adhere to the __**myth **__of pureblood superiority, I strongly advise you to forget your engagement and consider familiarizing yourself with one of the Greengrasses. You've not noticed, but they are throwing each other aside in hopes that you will give them the time of day. If you ignore my logic, I do fear you'll one day be ruined. I can only hope you don't become in family way before making it halfway down the altar._

_I will dishonor none of you by doing you the disservice of engaging you in pointless conversation. Father and Bellatrix, I will not join you and your 'Dark Lord' in your crusade of racial genocide just as I shan't abide by the ideals of Mother and Narcissa and live in a loveless marriage to simply for the sake of political correctness. In the meantime, I can only pray my young, impressionable cousins, are able to find their way out of the labyrinth of intolerance that is this __**cult **__which has unfortunately succeeded in fashioning us a family. _

_I know Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga are bursting to blast me from that damned tapestry, so don't delay. Also, please rest assured that my husband and I relish the opportunity to raise our child away from this hellhole of your Tojours pur bigotry! _

_Sincerely,_

_Andromeda Tonks _

"Well then," begins Orion, rising from his chair and depositing his newspaper on the table. "You've given Mrs. _Tonks_ ample enough time to correct her mistake, Cygnus. Would you like to do the honors?"

"Like _hell_!" Walburga spits furiously. "As the family matriarch, this is _my _duty! Both of you follow me!"

Highly offended, the two men oblige and follow the older woman into the drawing room.

"The rest is done, I presume?" Orion mutters to his brother-in-law as they walk.

"An owl has been dispatched to the _Prophet_, all of her relics have been destroyed, and the funds within her Gringotts account have been removed, divided and placed within the vaults of my…_daughters_."

"So, how does it feel?" Orion presses, for Cygnus will not meet his gaze.

"How does _what_ feel?"

"Knowing you two will soon be the grandparents of a filthy _halfblood_?"

Cygnus tenses. He'd spent the better part of three days trying to push that revelation from his mind. He turns to Orion, who looks perplexed at Cygnus's contorted face. "The same as it does knowing you two fathered a bloody _Gryffindor_."

Cygnus is pleased to see that the man's face, for all its pallor, immediately drained of color. Enraged, Orion pushes him into a wall so forcefully so that Cygnus's head almost collides with that of a mounted house-elf's.

"_Yes_," he snarled. "I imagine it does. But today, it's not _my _disgrace we're removing from the family today."

"_True,"_ Cygnus counters, pushing him off. "But I imagine it'll be soon enough. There's not a pureblood Gryffindor in existence who doesn't eventually _sympathize _with the less significant."

"_SIRIUS!" _Walburga roars from the drawing room. Orion and Cygnus abandon their quarrel and rush in. The black haired boy stood in front of the tapestry, his short arms extended over it as far as they could possibly reach.

"We have business in here, _son_." Attempting to sound motherly, she goes outright belly-up. "Come back later, okay?" Walburga's jaw locks and her eyes flashed dangerously. Still, she waits for her son to abide her command.

"No."

"_Excuse _me, young man?"

"_No_! I'm not _stupid, _Mum, and if you think I'm going to stand here and let you blast Andi off—"

"_Incarcerous!" _Walburga roars, her wand pointed at the defiant child.

Sirius's sentiments were cut short, as he began gasping, choking in pain and struggling with the ropes which tightly bind his neck. Eyes wide and watering, he stares at his mother in incredulity as blood streaked saliva drips down his chin.

Orion swore under his breath. "Come with me, foolish boy!" He exclaims, grabbing Sirius and Apparating upstairs.

"Right then," the woman sighed, as though deciding where to shop next. She doesn't know where she went wrong with this one; she has given birth to a _demon child _and he has become even more disrespectful, all on account of those bloody Gryffindors! "You agree it is time?" She addressed her brother. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

As his sister raises her wand, he distanced himself and folded his arms. It was not uncharacteristic for Walburga to be overly theatrical, and Cygnus wasn't convinced that in her excitement she wouldn't accidentally strike those who upheld and still uphold proper tradition.

"_Incendio!" _

Cygnus's fists clench as he watches Andromeda's face, so similar to his and Bellatrix's, become engulfed in flames.

"_Aguamenti!"_ And the fire is extinguished.

Thirty seconds later, the shame is gone. He has raised no disgrace to the family, nor has he named no child in 1953. In such a short period, Cygnus has but two daughters, one born in 1951, the other four years later.

In the blink of an eye, the flick of a wand and the utterance of two Latin spells, it is done.

_**1998**_

Narcissa Malfoy is tired. She is tired of painfully conspicuous looks of judgment that are thrown in her direction. She is tired of the sleep deprivation, tired of the uncertainty, and tired of the excruciating constrictions of her chest as she stresses over Draco and his future.

These circumstances excluded, Narcissa Malfoy is tired of having to be the man of the house. Her husband, Lucius, is now a shell of himself and his former beauty. With his unceremonious fall at the hands of Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort's reign has come to an end. But it has definitely taken its toll on Lucius. His former even and sleek pale blonde hair has lost its sheen, has faded to a dirty blonde hue, and is split at the ends. One eye remains closed and swollen. The anxiety of the Dark Lord being in Malfoy Manor at any time he chose strained Lucius so much that he'd been unshaven for what seemed like a thousand blue moons. Husband and wife were presently seated on the hard benches in the battle stricken Great Hall, wreckage surrounding them.

Lucius firmly grips a portion of his wife's black robes, as if mere physical closeness will expunge him of all agony. His nails are so long and sharp that they almost punctured Narcissa's skin. Amid the chattering of students, Narcissa heard him whimper. The once calm, haughty man is now jittery and nervous. It is all so desperate, so sad. And for the _life_ of her, she is sick of it. She is _sick_ of it beyond words.

"C-Cissy," he croaks, "Dear, we must depart for Wiltshire. I fear—"

Lucius falls silent as his wife turned to look at him, her jaw locked. He's never seen her face so hard, cold, and pitiless. "_No_, Lucius. _You _must depart for Wiltshire and put things in order. This is _your _mess, and _you _will be the one to fix it. _Now_," she adds sternly, for he merely gapes at her.

Narcissa isn't sure just how long she sits there after Lucius leaves.

"Butterbeer, Mrs. Malfoy? Or coffee, perhaps?" A deep voice asks; it drags her back to reality.

Glancing upward, Narcissa's blue eyes look into the impassive face of Blaise Zabini. He is tall with high cheekbones, dark copper skin and long, slanting brown eyes. Blaise's resemblance to his mother was uncanny.

"Yes, Blaise. Thank you." She responds after a moment, her tone cool and composed as she takes a random mug from his hand. "Do have a seat." She pats a vacant area beside her.

The young man scoffs. She raises an eyebrow. He complies.

"Mrs. Malfoy," He starts as both sipped their beverages and watch as Madam Pomfrey tended to injured Hufflepuffs, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Thoroughly, she looks him over. "My loss?"

Blaise turns to look at her, raising his eyebrows. "Your _sister_."

His words, his suspicious glare abruptly makes Narcissa descend and recognize the gravity of what has happened. Bellatrix had been killed, and by Molly Weasley, a lump of a woman, nonetheless. Truth be told, Bellatrix _Black_ had died a long time ago. Not that she had ever been an angelic figure, but this Bellatrix _Lestrange_, a woman who allied herself with and lapped at Voldemort's heels all those years had been a brash person with little regard for people other than her master and herself. Still, it remained an eerily disturbing blow.

"Thank you, Blaise," Narcissa casually replies. "How is Frederica?" She inquires, quickly changing the subject. "I look forward to having her over again."

"Mother's well, currently on her honeymoon in Bora Bora, as you know. She wanted me to let you know—"

Exactly what Frederica Zabini had wanted her son to relay to her friend would have to wait, for a blood curdling scream had just echoed across the Great Hall.

Narcissa's lips curl in distaste as her eyes fell upon a very unlikely scene. Draco, bruised and bloody, stands awkwardly beside a cot which hoists a dead Auror, a woman with mousy brown hair. Motionless, his face bears an expression that discloses his desire that no one noticed his presence. A woman, bearing a strong resemblance to Bellatrix, has collapsed in front of the corpse and howls loudly, much like a wounded animal. Soft brown hair cloaks her face but did nothing to conceal the violent tremors of her thin frame as she shook with grief.

Several people, students and teachers, have turned to identify the source of the commotion; their solemn faces become even more troubled at the sight. Their feet are rooted to the ground, all seeming uncertain of whether to comfort or allow her the common courtesy of grieving in solitude. And solitude it was, for the witch's body language divulges her as oblivious the fact that she is not alone. Narcissa stands and casts the Invisibility Spell on her sister's body, no longer able to look upon the mass of black curls. She haughtily tosses light blonde hair over her shoulder and advances towards her son.

"Draco," she remarks, all too forcefully for his comfort, "Let's go."

"But—she—" He stammers, conflicted as he gazes down at the pitiful scene at his feet.

"Is of no concern to you." His mother finishes, sparing a disdainful glance at the woman who has silenced herself and stilled upon hearing Narcissa's voice. "Draco—we—Draco, what are you doing?" Narcissa has lost her composure and her cheeks flush as her son scoops up a blue bundle in his arms.

Curiosity overcomes her as she peers into it, and she curses herself for having done so. She swears her heart momentarily ceases to beat for the blanket contains an unsolicited return to her former life. An infant stares up at her with stormy grey eyes, sweat matting down coal black hair to his forehead. His round face is streaked with tears as he waves his fists at her, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. To Naricssa's astonishment, Draco nervously pushes his hair from his face.

"You were being _mocked_, Draco." She breathes angrily, suppressing a shudder, all those months of torture imprinted into her mind. "You have no need to babysit the cub."

He falters, only now recognizing the atypical nature of his actions. "Yes, mother. I don't know what—why I—this—fil—half—wolf—sorry." He pathetically mumbles.

"Narcissa." Says the woman's hoarse voice as she stands to her feet. Andromeda's features have obviously changed over the years, but the years have been kind to her. Although her eyes are bloodshot and sunken and her expression anguished, Narcissa's elder sister has maintained the patrician features common to those who are members of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Or former members, as it were. Her hair is thick and wavy, her dark brown eyes striking. Narcissa carefully inspects Andromeda and sneers at the dirt and grime that have sullied her burgundy robes. To conduct oneself in such a manner, especially in present company was so…_common_. Disowned or not, Andromeda was pureblood and such behavior was nothing short of vulgar.

"Andromeda." She nods coldly, acknowledging the presence of the witch whom she had once called her kin. "How have you been?" Narcissa asks, mindful of her upbringing.

Andromeda Tonks née Black studies her for a while. Brown eyes scrutinize blue and although Narcissa gives no indication, her sister's regard reminds her of Bellatrix's, when she was sane. It is maddening.

Andromeda inhales deeply, as though to keep herself from lunging at the audacity. Her hands become fists and they tremble with the pain ignited by the cruelty the new regime had instigated.

"I said my farewells to our family before my nineteenth birthday in favor of marrying the man I loved so that we could raise our daughter in the path of morality, a manner in which all children ought to be brought up. I had not a knut to my name, and when those I believed to be my friends caught wind of what I'd done, they deserted me. And in the past few months, Narcissa, my husband and I have been tortured by means of the Cruciatus Curse, my husband has been killed by Snatchers, my daughter and son-in-law now lay dead before me, and in a few years' time, I have the honor of explaining to their son why his parents aren't alive…."

Narcissa's cheeks redden, albeit slightly, against her will. Out of the corners of her eyes, she sees that the onlookers have now turned their attention elsewhere. She is grateful for this.

"….given these factors, things couldn't be better, Cissy." She cynically finishes.

Narcissa reacts at the drop of a sickle, without a moment's thought. "That's _your_ fault, _Andi_! You weren't under the Imperius Curse—"

"Though Lucius, no doubt, claimed to be—"

"—that was _your _prerogative to run away and to wed that filthy mudblood you were mercilessly shagging and I couldn't care—"

"Don't act as though you weren't doing the same to Lucius, Narcissa! I'm not daft, you know; I held my tongue all those occasions you failed to return home, attributing your absence to Quidditch practice!" Andromeda snorted mockingly, though her attempt flat upon Narcissa's ears. Clearly, forced laughter was Andromeda's alternative to irrepressible wailing. "The broomstick you were riding certainly didn't come from Cygnus and Druella!"

"_Merlin's _beard!"

"Excuse me, ladies!"

The shouts of the estranged sisters were silenced by two professors moving swiftly towards them; one a short, bald, portly man with gooseberry eyes and a large mustache, the other a tall, rather severe looking woman with black hair and square spectacles.

"Just what is going on here?" Minerva McGonagall asks, looking from one sister to the other, reprimanding the two, who stare at each other stone-faced. The display very much resembles a Muggle schoolteacher who has gathered two children together and is impatiently waiting for each to apologize.

"Well, don't you see, Minerva?" Horace Slughorn intervenes, for neither sister had dropped her steely gaze. "Simply two sisters having a disagreement…though given the circumstances, I can hardly determine why…" He trails off, quite foolishly. "I was just telling Harry Potter last year that I taught the whole Black family, except for Sirius….oh, Kingsley! Kingsley, may I have a word!" At McGonagall's outraged look, Slughorn scurries off behind the tall, charismatic black wizard.

McGonagall turns her attention back towards Narcissa and Andromeda. She did not speak, only stands there, as if moderating a debate.

"We all have choices in life," Narcissa states, as if quoting from a holy text. As if her word is law. "And the decisions we make have consequences. You have paid dearly for yours. You seek my apology for how our parents acted? I shall not apologize; that was _your _stupidity to surrender your fortune. You seek my apology for how your friends acted? I shall not apologize; do not forget that many of yours were also mine, and they do not easily forgive. You seek my apology for the torture of you and your spouse? I shall not apologize; no amount of torture inflicted can equate to torture at _his _hand. You seek my apology for the deaths of your husband and child; I _certainly _shan't apologize for these, seeing as my husband has been incarcerated and my son has been forced to do the Dark Lord's bidding. He could easily be dead beside your daughter at this very moment, killed by an Auror! I have been through _just _as much hell as you have, if not more!"

"You-how dare-you dare to—" The brunette wheezes, incensed so.

"Yes, _I dare_," The blonde taunts. "Come, Draco. We're leaving." Narcissa turns on her heel and proceeds to walk away.

Knowing his mother's word to be final this time around, he awkwardly holds the baby out to his grandmother. She takes him and gives a fleeting smile to the back of the nephew she has never had the privilege to become acquainted with.

But to her sister, she declares, "You won't get away with this, Narcissa!" As the baby once more begins to cry, she continues, "The courts will make you and your husband pay for the lamenting my Teddy will have to contend with!"

Holding Draco's hand, she turns before the spiked toes of her heels cross the threshold to the Entrance Hall and faces her sister for the final time. "Yes, I am certain of it!" She exclaims. "In the meantime, I'd advise you to consult with Bellatrix, for the murder of your _abomination_ and your ex-fiancée for the murder of your _carnivore_!"

Narcissa leers in pleasure at Andromeda's intensified hell, the sight of the woman grasping at her chest, wanting to rip her heart out, _needing _to, because doing so will eradicate the pain. Teddy's cries grow louder, his hair now a fiery red. Andromeda sinks to her knees, tightly clutching her grandson, and now gasping for breath. Minerva McGonagall, Molly Weasley, and Harry Potter now crouch and enclose around her, muttering words of encouragement, all futile, as they fall upon deaf ears.

Few will truly desire to remain within the ruined Scotland castle should a more attractive opportunity present itself. Thus, when safely in Hogsmeade, mother and son Disapparate.

When Narcissa Malfoy writes the letter, it is midnight…seven months later, and she has regained as much normality over her life as is feasible. The wizarding world, desperately needing a speedy trial to bring closure to the madness of the preceding years, implored the Wizengamot to adhere to reasoning.

Inconsistent with their nature of abiding by the proper protocol, the Wizengamot acquiesced the citizenry's arguments for swift justice. The Lestrange brothers, the Carrows, and many others were returned to Azkaban prison. Rodolphus had not spoken a word since Bellatrix's funeral. His mouth simply hung open as the casket was lowered into the ground. Narcissa knew not if his expression was one of shock that his wife had been defeated or that he would be returning to that godforsaken castle in the middle of the North Sea; regardless, she was fairly sure that if he did not accept reality, the Dementors would have his soul within a week. In exchange for sparing Harry Potter's life, the testimony of The Boy Who Lived spared the Malfoy family the misery of prison, much to her Andromeda's disappointment. She'd attended trial for the express purpose of seeing them garner reprisal.

Narcissa paces the floor of her husband's study. Draco is over at the home of his fiancée, Astoria Greengrass, and she has instructed him to relay the falsehood of her distress at not being able to attend the family's affair, but her illness will not let up. She can hear Lucius upstairs, beside himself with anger at his wife's snubbing of his pleas for lovemaking. She has cast _Colloportus _upon the door and, having retrieving a new bottle of ink, a roll of parchment, and a quill, begins her penning.

_Dearest Regulus, _

_Cousin, it's been nineteen years since I've seen you, and these many years have felt like an eternity. A few yesterdays ago, I was ruffling my hands through your curly black hair, squeezing and kissing your cherub cheeks. We were the model children of the family, Reg. Still, our foolish parents never realized this. We __**never **__defiled ourselves, as did my foolish sisters and your idiot brother. Their selfish actions enabled them to tear themselves and our honorable surname to pieces. But listen to me, reminiscing. Becoming sentimental. Forgive me, Reg; that is not my intention. I only sought to speak with you once more, as you were __**always**__ my favorite. You always have been, and you always will be. _

_But for now, Reg, we rest. We rest not only because we are physically spent, but because we were always oppressed. You, unjustifiably bullied by Sirius. Me by Bellatrix, who frightened just for the hell of it, and Andromeda, less harsh than Bellatrix for sure, but needing to impose her self-righteous will. Those simpletons in the outside world always believed those three to be so different from one another, but I've always considered them triplets sharing one common brain and identical with every fiber of their beings._

_So sleep, my beloved, for we'll soon meet again._

_My sincerest love,_

_Narcissa Black-Malfoy _

When she finishes admiring her elegant script, Narcissa decidedly seals the letter and sends it with one of the owls to 12 Grimmauld Place. She contemplates the irony in how she and her cousin were so underappreciated, yet it was _their _shoulders upon which fell the burden of relaying dreadful news. She ponders the duration in which Kreacher, Regulus's house elf, will yelp and moan at seeing Regulus' name in print before delicately placing the letter in his master's bedroom upon the uppermost fixture, a definite testament to the respect he holds for the writer and the addressee.

It is snowing when her owl returns. She sorts her out and departs the study before heading upstairs to the master bedroom where her husband lies asleep.

Every muscle in her body seems to ache as she slides into bed beside Lucius, tightly gripping her wand. Narcissa's head lie flat upon her cool pillow as the tip of her wand, pressed to her temple, retrieves silver extractions. Finally, she can endure no more; wand and hand collapse beside her. She sighs in liberation; her wand falls onto the floor and rolls into a corner opposite her bed.

Narcissa turns from Lucius and grasps her pillow securely, burying her face in it.

Some memories just aren't worth preserving.

_**Fin.**_


End file.
